Reality Show

The tomato hits the wall with a juicy smack and turns to slush. Red liquid dribbles down the dirty concrete and my nose fills with a sweet, rotten whiff.

That's definitely not what I bargained for when I volunteered for LWRS, the 'Lost World Reality Show'. I imagined a pristine jungle, wild beasts, even a dinosaur or giant ape to fight or run from. Completely save and just for the fun of the audience, of course. For short, a chance to get away from my desk and the pressure to write another action-packed thriller.

Quickly, I duck beneath another tomato, followed by a paint bomb, and dive behind a corner. I'm lucky, the side street is empty, and I run, determined to make the best of the streak as long as it lasts. Halfway down the alley, I spot a fire escape ladder. From atop a battered trash bin I reach the lowest rung. Exhausted from the climb, I drop into a heap on the roof, panting. That's me: a slightly overweight, middle-aged author on the height of his success, happy to exchange his comfy chair behind a keyboard with the thrill of real adventure for two weeks. Two weeks! I wonder what crazy whim made me sign the damned paper.

'It will help your sales,' my manager said. 'Take a break, get some fresh air and new inspiration!'

Ha, some fresh air, filled with rotten vegetables and the stench of an urinal. Lost world, by gosh! We're on the second day and I haven't found a single hour of rest yet. Twelve more days to go, at this rate, I'll lose half my weight and return a complete wreck. If I survive, of course.

I should have been paying more attention to the contract's clauses, especially the ones written in tiny script at the end.

As soon as I catch my breath, I explore the deserted roof in a cold drizzle: some rusty installations, probably air conditioners and a little house with a locked door. Frustrated, I kick the sheet metal hard and gasp as pain spreads in my toes. The door omits a hollow sound, like a gong. I rest my forehead against the rusty metal, only to be hit in the nose. While I jump back, the door creaks open. Out of a pale face framed by a bushy salt-and-pepper beard two piercing eyes check me out.

'Where do you come from, young man?'

It's been a long time since someone called me young. The owner of the hoarse voice pushes the door fully open.

'Lost your tongue? Wait, you're in this crazy game? Let me guess, you're one of the celebrities they make fun of? Ha! Always wondered how desperate one had to be to play along with that.'

Without allowing me time to answer, my new acquaintance pulls me with surprising force out of the rain and into the building. Well, he didn't throw tomatoes, so I'll consider him an ally for the moment. We stumble down a staircase in complete darkness. On the first landing, my friend—or whatever—opens a door and switches on the lights. I'm baffled.

We stand in a clean, cosy apartment, complete with kitchenette dominated by a huge fridge. Salt-and-pepper winks and offers me a cold beer.

'You look like you're in dire need of this. Name's Dan, by the way.'

'I'm Art. Thanks, Dan. You just saved my life. Cheers!'

While we drink in companionable silence, I study the comfortable living room.

'Do you live here? I thought everything here was set up for the game?'

'Some kind of game. That's my home and I don't intend to leave before the bulldozers arrive. Aren't you supposed to play those stupid games on tropical islands or in rainforests? Why in a suburb block waiting for destruction?'

'It's supposed to convey the vibe of a late twentieth century ghetto, complete with street gangs, hookers and drug dealers. Lost world, it's called. Mistake of my life, and another twelve days to go.'

He hands me another beer. I hesitate. 'Don't want to drink your supply dry.'

'No worries, mate, more to be found where this comes from. I have my ways. You might need it if you want to survive out there another twelve days.'

Want? Who said I wanted? Dan seems to read my thoughts. Not that I tried to hide them.

'Hm, do you play chess? Haven't had a decent partner since my wife died. But be warned, I spend hours playing the piano. It's my passion, used to be a pianist. If you can't put up with it, feel free to leave anytime.'

Leave? Not an option. Chess and piano sound fine. Maybe I'll find the time to outline another book. I have an idea, some hero stranded on an isolated tropical island, a veritable lost world. Perhaps there will even be dinosaurs.